


8 Days a Week

by dizzyt



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mafia AU, Mutual Pining, Russian Mafia, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-13 05:18:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyt/pseuds/dizzyt
Summary: Nikolai is the pakhan, Yuri is a brat and Otabek can handle it.a.k.a. that Otayuri Mafia AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a one-shot thing inspired by kawaiilo-ren's [awesome art](http://kawaiilo-ren.tumblr.com/post/154906073835/so-how-about-an-otayuri-mafia-au-where-yurio-is), but I ended up having too much fun. Let's continue.
> 
> Thank you Kaitlyn for letting me run wild with your AU.

"For God's sake, this is the sixth time this year..."

The old man takes his cap off and throws it on his crowded desk, knocking off a stack of envelopes. His salt and pepper hair is more salt than pepper these days, the lines around his eyes don't turn his weary gaze into a softer one. It's been a long day. Nikolai's body is losing tolerance for long days but work doesn't wait for him, so he has to keep up. He is okay with it too. What he isn't okay with is coming home late at night, ready to ignore the world for a couple hours and finding out that there is even more mess to sort out.

Letting out a raspy sigh, he stares at the ornate ceiling. No answers to be found in the antique chandelier. If his stance had a voice, it would ask him where he went wrong; instead, he sits down and shakes his head, staring at the tall guy who is waiting for a response.

"Where is he?"

"In the drawing room, sir. Yakov told us not to let him out of the house, so I kept three guys around the building, in case-"

"In case he decides he doesn't need doors?"

"Uh… It happened before, so—”

“I know what happened before.”

A tense silence. Not because Georgi, the anxious young man trying not to break into a rant, is incompetent or careless, nor it is because Nikolai is caught off guard by his grandson's reckless tendencies. He tries to find a better answer than “Lock that punk up,” during his pause. However, there is an element of comedy in this clusterfuck that simply cannot be ignored, and that is how drained Georgi looks just by mentioning the young Plisetsky.

The child's need for trouble and anarchy has left most of the security staff helpless, it's nothing new. Nikolai would have been livid if this was the first time he’s heard the name of his grandson and the police department in the same sentence. Maybe he did get soft after all.

His lips are now pressed into an invisible line to hide the tiny smirk; Yuri has a way of amusing him but as Yuri gets older, his youthful mischief starting to border on dangerous. At some point, that he will attract something bigger than he can take on, leaving Nikolai to clean up the mess, or worse. Old man refuses to think about the other ending for the stupid game that the boy is playing. He has to be more cautious. Nikolai knows the word doesn’t exist in Yuri’s dictionary. Little shit knows no rules.

"Very well,” he says. “Keep your 'guys' around the house but they have other things to do, they can't chase after Yuri all day long.” After a sigh, he continues. “I’ve been thinking… Who can you spare?"

"Spare, sir?"

Nikolai rolls his eyes and rubs his forehead before deciding to raise his voice. The days of staff that could read his mind are truly over.

"Yes, boy, _spare_.” His voice loses its patient tone and Georgi loses another shade of colour but does not flinch. “Who can leave his duties to shadow Yuri and make sure he stays out of trouble? Who has enough common sense and ability but also the time to do it? Don’t give me just any names, think well. I’m not giving this job to anyone who can hold a .45. Yuri is a handful. One scratch on that boy and I’ll bury your lot alive in cement."

Georgi's breath hitches after the threat he knows to be far from empty. Who does he have to spare? Fucking nobody, that’s who. This isn’t exactly the kind of career path that takes interns who can do the extra work. Besides, calling Yuri a handful is the underestimation of this aging decade. The boy is hell bound and unless someone knows the city like the back of his hand and has an iron will, they will be useless.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Yuri. Georgi likes him in a ‘you grew up around me and I have to like you’ kind of way. But as he grew, the misbehaving took a different turn and the impulsive acts he pulls are no longer funny. 'Fairy my ass,’ Georgi thinks, recalling the nickname Mila came up with. 'The boy is nothing less than a hell cat.'

No ordinary guy would do. He needed someone who knew how to fight and how to negotiate, how to listen and how to convince. Someone who could match Yuri. Someone reliable. Responsible. Strong. Hell, he needed nothing short of a hero.

A hero.

Georgi blinks.

"Sir, I might have a guy. The Kazakh. Yakov’s man.”

"Good. Send him to me, we'll see if he's fit to have my boy on a shorter leash."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started this on a whim with zero planning and only snapshots in my head. Wish me luck on bringing them together and hopefully offering something that is at least readable. Feedback always appreciated.
> 
> #OtayuriTrash


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments and kudos, I am grinning like an idiot.  
> This is way shorter than I wanted to publish for chapter 2, but I also wanted to get the prequel-ish part out of the way so I can continue without bothering too much with the set up.

Yuri Plisetsky does not look like the heir of an empire. Everyone agrees on that.

He has his mother's features; she has never once been intimidating in her life. He is lithe, willowy; his tread has got a feline ease to it. Blame the ballet training, he says always. He may dress like a designer punk but everything else about him is more woodland spirit than menacing Pakhan.

Mila likes his long fingers and how his hair grown enough to touch his shoulders, framing his scowl, but her compliments only lead to more scowling and colourful insults. Yuri doesn't care for her praise. He sulks and glares and yells; he has the temper and the wardrobe to make up for his lack of physical presence. However, none of his fashion victories give him the _look he thinks he would_ need for the business, nor do they rescue him from his grandfather's latest lecture.

It is kind to call it a lecture, because Yuri can swear that the double glazing of the windows vibrated under the man’s roar. Nikolai spent an hour flinging his arms, walking up and down the drawing room, filling it with his stout body and his worst case scenarios, leaving very little room for Yuri to breathe. It was a good scolding but not as legendary as the infamous month-long house arrest in the early autumn, after he got high and picked up a fight with two police officers when they tried to move him away from the railings of Anichkov Bridge.  
  
Yuri has a rich vocabulary but even he admitted that that was not the ideal place to show it off. He had to be carried away to the police station that evening, but they couldn't do much else after a phone call got his ass out of the station, only an hour after he ninja-kicked his way through its doors. He was shoved in a dusty Lada Granta and brought back home to a seething Uncle Yakov. Even with that level of buzz, he still vividly remembers Yakov's death stare. Yuri wouldn't be exaggerating if he said he barely saw direct sunlight for twenty day after that. Grandpa even snatched away his phone, his iPad and his laptop, reducing his contact with the world to actual newspapers. He survived that, so he knows that the latest scolding is a slap on the wrist, nothing more.

And he is not happy.

It wasn't always like this. Nikolai doesn't have a short fuse, unlike his grandson. He doesn't fly off the handle after every small act of defiance However, Yuri is seventeen years old and in his short life, he has never heard his grandfather raise his voice as much as he did this year. Listening to Yakov’s bitching isn’t anything new. He always has something to be unsatisfied with about Yuri. Not paying attention to school, not paying attention to family, talking back, drinking, not answering his phone, too young for this, too old for that...

Grandpa is different. _Was_ different. And now, only an hour after Yuri wakes up, he is getting a watchdog chained to his ankle so he won't accidentally drown himself in Neva.   
  
He glares at Yakov, who clearly was chosen to deliver the good news, and twists his face with disgust.

" _What?!_ No way in hell! I'm not walking around with a fucking nanny!"

"Watch your tongue. And he's not your nanny; he'll keep an eye on you so you don't get hurt trying to make a point. You think out there is a playground? You have to be more careful and-”

Yuri's eyes roll back as he sinks down on his chair, legs wide open. 

"Uuuh, quit nagging! So I went out after the dark! What am I, four years old? Get off my back!"

"Yura, I swear…” Nikolai finds some crumbs of inner peace after a few seconds of pause. “You didn’t ‘go out after dark’. You were out at midnight, on your own, in a back alley with your knuckles bared, having a petty spat with a junkie. You won't even tell us what happened—”

"He started it! Fucking hell… And I wasn't alone, Pavel was there."

"Oh, _Pavel was there!_ Now I'm relieved!” Sarcasm was not lost on Yuri but he chose to ignore it. Yakov’s tone dropped, carefully crafted words abandoned. “I don't care about that cocky little shit stick, I care about you! You know the moment there is problem, he'll scuttle like the slippery weasel he is. And until you remember that you are not a fucking gang member, I'll have my eyes on you."

"They are not _your_ eyes..."

"They're close enough. It is settled and you'll cooperate."

"Hey no, this is bullshit! Where is grandpa? I'll talk to him, he can't handcuff me to some jackass who wears sunglasses indoors and speaks to his pocket! Fuck’s sake…"

Jumping from his seat, he kicks the door open and storms out, barely catching Nikolai as he is about to walk out of the door.

"Wait! Are you kidding me? I'm not gonna have anyone follow me around, I’m not a toddler!"

Nikolai sighs, looking more tired than anything else. Yuri is standing across him, everything about his posture screaming ‘fight me’. He can see that the boy is furious, frustrated, ready to attack. It’s the pulsating energy of his youth and rage looking for a place to go but he is too busy to give him what he wants. Failing to appreciate that Yuri can still pull off anger in tiger-print jeans, he buttons his coat.

"I've made my decision, it is my final word. You are too careless and I cannot take any more risks with your safety. It's for your own good. No other way to keep an eye on you when I'm away. Yakov cannot chase you around all day long."

"I don't- what? Away? What away? You came back three weeks ago, where are you going?"

"Abroad, this weekend."

Yuri deadpans.

"Abroad? That explains so much, thanks for sharing."

"I don’t need to elaborate every trip I take, shocking as that may be... Don't you worry about it; I'll be back in a week. Yakov will introduce him to you today so mind your manners. I have a meeting, we'll talk later."

Yuri silently watches the man leave, defeat spreading over him like a foul smell he cannot wash off.

_Talk when? You're never here._

Within a few moments, he is left there standing alone, willing to bring the walls down like a hurricane. He is almost an adult, who will be followed around by some crusty, dull, balding bodyguard, eight days a week, twenty five hours a day. Living hell while he still walks the earth, at the prime of his life.

So be it. But he’ll make it miserable for everyone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Feedback appreciated. 
> 
> [dizzytea@Tumblr](dizzytea.tumblr.com/ask).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otabek finally makes an appearance in this (slightly delayed) chapter. 
> 
> Yuri is salty and I feel sorry for Georgi's lot in life but that's life and he has good reasons to put up with it. We'll get to that, eventually.

Yuri is busy ignoring Georgi’s suffering when the phone starts vibrating in his hand for the nineteenth time. He has been persistent enough to make Yuri’s fingers go numb but Yuri will not defend himself for skipping the meeting with whoever is his new watchdog.

When it is Mila’s name that appears on the screen, he picks up.

“What?”

“When are you going home?”

Her voice is lazy enough to assure Yuri that Yakov isn’t busting her ass to find him; she is calling to satisfy her own curiosity or maybe she is bored enough to stalk him. When he is late to answer, Mila continues, mirth still not lost in her tone.

“Yuriii…”

“...”

“Fairyyy... You’re there?”

“Stop fucking calling me that.”

“When will you be back? Bolting right after Nikolai isn’t exactly what Yakov considers as cooperating, you know.”

“Like I care… What do you want?”

Mila fakes a sigh, failing to suppress her glee.

“Georgi is having a heart attack. He thinks Yakov will disembowel him if he finds out you’re not home again. Despite those three guys waiting outside the front door. How did you do it?”

“I’ll tell you so you can give them a heads up? Figure it out yourself, hag. And that’s Georgi’s problem, not mine. Just tell him not to cry near my clothes, that fucking eyeliner stains like ink.”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME!”

The shriek that interrupts his words echoes in his head loud enough to force Yuri's hand away from his ear. Grimacing, he looks at the screen, annoyed that he is being screwed over by Mila.

“Am I on speaker phone?”

“Yep.”

He considers killing her with his bare hands but that requires going back home and that isn’t tempting. Before either of them can say anything else, the phone gets snatched away and much to his chagrin, Yuri is left with a hysteric Georgi on the line.

“Give me that damn phone! HEY! I held you literally one time when I was depressed, thinking that you were maybe more than pure evil, you fun size demon! Get back here _now_ before Yakov calls. You’re supposed to meet your new guy and-”

“He is not my guy, sad sack! I don’t need a babysitter. And stop harassing my phone, you called enough to kill the battery. Fuck’s sake... No wonder Anya fled.”

“YURI-”

“Bye.”

Yuri hangs up and turns off his phone before Georgi breaks into a new high-pitched lecture, and digs into his pocket for a cigarette. The echo of ‘fun size demon’ is still in his mind but he has heard every possible “young one” joke from Yakov’s annoying devils, so he isn’t as angry as he should be.

A thick cloud of smoke disappears over one of the smaller branches of Neva while he listlessly leans over the ice cold railings. In season, he would be watching tourists float away gathered in sightseeing boats, taking photos of every building and sculpture they spot. Now that it’s early winter, nobody wants to be on water and Yuri doesn’t blame them. The ice on the river won’t properly settle until well into December but he can see icicles beginning to form at edges of the roofs and water pipes, soon to become a hazard. They can fall and crack your head open like an Easter egg. Nobody ever wants to be skewered by a huge ice stick on the way to their daily commute but such is the peril of living in Russia.

Flicking the ash off, he looks around. He isn’t too far from the house, only far enough to avoid Georgi who is squeaking like a little pig at the thought of a furious Yakov. Whatever… He isn’t fazed; he has seen every level of fury that can come from the old man. It may be a simple grunt or a holler that shakes his lungs but Yakov would never hurt him in a million years. His shoulders are relaxed with that knowledge, while he wonders what he has done in his past life to deserve such shit turn of events. Once upon a spring, he was sure that had hit rock bottom when Viktor unexpectedly fucked off to Japan to chase ‘Katsuki’s flawless ass’ (his words, definitely not Yuri’s) and Yuri was left behind to listen to every tirade Yakov came up with. The darkest of times…

Lo behold, this one is proving to be an upgrade. At least back then, nobody tried to take him out on walks two times a day and reported back to the senile members of their residence. This officially blows and as a solid principle, he doesn’t cooperate.

*

“My life would be so peaceful if I just hurled you over that railing and walked away like nothing happened.”

Yuri jumps at the voice, so lost in his own misery to notice that unmistakable combination of an overdone quiff and exasperated whining. Georgi is looking more annoyed by the second so Yuri decides to indulge the guy instead of making a run for it.

“Do it, freak. I’d rather sink and freeze than have some douche bag hold my hand to help me cross the street. Have you people no respect? I have an image to protect!”

His words are met by the loss of hope in Georgi’s azure eyes. Despite being so intensely colored, the lack of spark in them is ironic, if not tragic. Georgi lately claims that Yuri is the reason he has lost the will to live but Yuri doesn’t have it in him to explain that Georgi was doomed from the beginning. The guy had written the creepiest stalker love letter to his ex and he still has the audacity to blame Yuri for his failures at life.

Oblivious to Yuri’s evaluation, Georgi glares.

“I don’t care about your Instagram fame! Will you stop being such a drama queen? And believe me; nobody wants to hold your hand! Jesus…”

“Dude, you clung to me until I _screamed_ to be released-”

“One time, brat!”

Before Yuri can protest any further, or make fun of his complete loss of composure, his newly lit cigarette is yanked off his hand and thrown away into the water. Georgie clearly does not fool around today because he is already dragging Yuri away by force, with absolutely no respect for his reputation or his social media presence.

“Let’s go. You’re not disappearing this time.”

“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“The hell I can’t! Move it.”

“That shirt is worth more than your ass, go easy.”

“Who would wear these except you?”

“Says the guy who paid actual money for a hoodie with glitter text…”

“I wasn’t aware it had writing on the back, let the damn thing go!”

 

____________________

_“Where is dad?”_

_“He’s away.”_

_“Still?”_

_“Still."_

____________________

 

Yakov is a very patient man, despite what his death stare and rumbling voice dictates. He wouldn’t be able to survive the rollercoaster that was Viktor Nikiforov if he wasn’t. The bane of his existence may not reside in St. Petersburg anymore but the strength he has built in Yakov’s nerves lives on. At times like this, Yakov is truly thankful that Viktor came first, so he knows how to handle Yuri’s tantrums and latest tendencies to disappear in under two minutes. He is too old for this, and Yuri no longer prefers to tire himself out with demanding ballet classes with Lilia, which means all his spare adolescent energy goes into making his makeshift family suffer. The entire experience is an eye opener for most, but not for Yakov.

He is checking his watch when Georgi finally drags a very angry Yuri back to the living room without revealing any details of what caused him to purse his thin lips into a tiny little hole. Yakov is past the point of questioning, and they have more urgent matters to attend to. It is obvious from Yuri’s glare and preparation to lash out that he is still not even beginning to accept the idea of having constant security with him. Yakov is happy to acknowledge that; but in their position, in Yuri’s position, the child has been more reckless than they could get away with. Neither he nor Nikolai is willing to risk safety for the sake of humouring Yuri’s puberty-induced mutiny.

Unsatisfied with how unimpressed Yakov looks, Yuri almost hisses at the sight and yanks his jacket off Georgi’s grasp, ready to breathe fire upon the first person to antagonize him.

“Fine! I’m here, what do you want?”  
“You can go, Georgi. Yura, don’t you think about walking out that door.”

Yuri sulks. It’s disappointing how observant Yakov can be and how obvious his quick glimpse at the exit was. This is the opposite of what he wanted for a Saturday.

“Sit down. We have to talk about things and you won’t jump out of your seat every other ten words I speak. I’m in a rush.”  
“I don't want to sit. And I will NOT walk around with a brainless bodyguard who is bursting out of his shitty suit, okay? Anyone who speaks to a Bluetooth headset is a douchebag.”  
“A headset? Who do you think you are, boy, the president? I’m not giving you to a secret agent, get over yourself.”

Unsure of how to process the dismissive attitude, Yuri crosses his arms and keeps glaring at Yakov. In his earliest memories, the man had hair. Along with Georgi’s deepening depression, Yakov’s balding issue seems to be his fault as well judging by the frequent comments, but Yuri knows better. Viktor gave Yakov grey hair and a bald patch long before Yuri could get his hands on the man's emotional balance. Assface Nikiforov may be gifted in many ways, but he is also the author of How to Never Listen 101, expected to be published never. If Yakov needs to blame someone for his growing hat collection, it’s not him.

“If I’m that insignificant, why are you tying me to a stranger so I’ll be what, safe? Georgi is already all up in my business, all the time! What good is a second shadow?”

The light in the large living room is bleak. Unlike the brilliance of clear winter days, this murky weather turns St. Petersburg into a depressing movie setting with old dirty buildings and grumpy people. Yuri’s face matches the sky, so does Yakov’s. Still, very much the opposite of what he wanted for a Saturday.

“I didn’t say you’re insignificant; don’t talk nonsense like you are unaware of everything. You’re not a child. Just because Mila thinks you are a fairy, doesn’t mean the rest of the city does. We can’t be everywhere, you can’t always be aware. Hell, you make a point of being not aware on purpose. When Viktor was your age-”  
“You finish that sentence and I’ll do something that’ll definitely make Georgi cry.”

First deep Yakov sigh of the day. Success.

“I’ll cut to the chase. You need someone else to keep an eye on you, we need to know someone keeps an eye on you, but…”

Yuri waits for the good news, hoping that Yakov will tell him they couldn’t find anyone fit for the job or that they actually have faith in his survival skills.

“…I don’t want anyone who attracts attention and screams ‘bodyguard’ before you even approach them. So, you’ll meet Otabek, you will hold your sharp tongue and there will be no more arguments about this. And don’t give him hell just because you’re mad at us.”

Yakov knows Yuri, and Yuri is aware. The old man has been around him even more than his grandfather. A lifetime, however short it may be, is enough to foresee the next step before Yuri starts to think about it. And he is not stupid; he knows that the security guy is clueless about the bottomless pit that is his anger. Otabek, whoever it is, is a hired employee who will treat him like work, probably overpaid as well to keep his mind on the job. Yuri is not mad at that secret service reject, he is angry at everything else. But ‘everything else’ is too large of an opponent to fight and it is much more efficient to take it out on those who are closest to you.

 “I’m not making promises.”  
“Of course you’re not,” Yakov mumbles as he makes a quick call and Georgi reappears at the door, only this time someone else is with him.

 

_Okay, what the fuck._

 

Yuri is so fixed on the idea of having an aging ex-bouncer turning his life into hell that his brain fails to catch up with what his eyes see.

“Ah! There you are. Yuri and I were talking about your new arrangement. Did Georgi told you about the details?”

Yuri keeps staring at the guy, wondering if he is the actual security’s assistant or something, but nobody else seems to be following them into the room. This is it. This is ‘the nanny’ of his recent nightmare and he isn’t a nanny _at all_.

“Yes sir, he did.”  
“Good. You were told what you need to know…”

Yakov continues to talk to Otabek but Yuri isn’t listening. This isn’t what he expected and he isn’t entirely sure how he feels about the outcome.

Instead of a late-thirties hunk with a drink and a long nap on his mind, he gets... this. Otabek is young. Young enough to make Yuri wonder how his grandpa and Yakov agreed to this arrangement. He thought he would get a geezer with a receding hairline. Otabek would have an entire head full of hair if it weren’t for his undercut. He looks like he hasn’t even seen a cheap polyester suit, let alone keep one in his wardrobe. He just has a white shirt on, black jeans and combat boots, worn enough to make Yuri question if they were indeed worn in combat. He may not be as tall and hunky as Yuri feared he would be, but he has a heavy presence and the most intense gaze Yuri has ever came across with. It makes him uncomfortable, almost scratchy inside; so he glares and averts his eyes, refusing to release his crossed arms. He knows he looks like a petulant child but he doesn’t care. Young or old, cool or lame, he now has to walk around with an extension. Said extension having unapologetically tattooed knuckles doesn't change shit. What a day.

 

No significant moment in his life has occurred under a dramatic light. No crescendo background music, no cameras strategically focusing on the subjects, no pregnant silences. He can hear the deafening noise of an ambulance passing by, if a little muffled by the thick windows. The room smells like polished wood and aging velvet. Yuri is uncomfortable in his new jeans that he has yet to stretch. Yakov sits in the royal blue bergère, pausing in between sentences, his breath loud and heavy under the weight of thirty years of smoking cigarillos. Nothing is dramatic when Georgi is watching them conclude their brief chat and when Otabek stands there, not even remotely distracted by the antique mantel clock or the three Fabergé eggs on the rosewood shelves of the curved glass curio cabinet.

It’s uneventful, unwanted and unavoidable.

  
And that’s how Yuri meets The Kazakh for the first time for him, but for the second time for Otabek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're one of those unfortunate few people who has to sit through my caps lock fangirling about this AU (or anything Otayuri, honestly) you have my endless gratitude. 
> 
> Many many thanks to Clio who has read this (while Goblet of Fire was on TV, no less) and fixed my mistakes.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**2004**

 

 

 

**2016**

December has been hinting at snow ever since its first days and it finally arrives on 13th, covering the windowsills of Nikolai Plisetsky’s study with powdery white. All the roofs are painted thick white across the courtyard and it isn’t long before the ice gets a hold of the canals. Winters last long in St Petersburg, but it is easy to spend a long winter when the walls of your home are thick, keeping the cold out of your well heated, well-lit rooms. Both of the men in the study know it, neither of them complains about the long nights or endless snow and frost. They have more important matters to discuss and they have been doing so since Yakov came over after promises of post-breakfast _nalivka_. Nikolai kept his word, but even the warm sweet coating of cherry and blackcurrant flavour on Yakov’s tongue distracts him enough to ignore the restlessness that had a hold of Nikolai ever since he came back from Moscow.

“Are you going to talk about it?”

Nikolai pretends indifference to the question but Yakov is persistent and they both know it. Once upon a time, playing dumb was a time saver. Now, it’s just a short delay that takes up too much energy to be worth the results. Sighing, he looks at Yakov sitting across him, in the other wing chair in front of the double glazed windows.   

“There is nothing to talk about, so far. Never mind.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing. What did you do with Sokolov yesterday for half an hour? The man can barely string together three sentences to get through the day.”

“Asked him some questions. Want more?”

Refilling his empty glass with rich burgundy liquor, Nikolai looks calm but Yakov cannot guess what he would want from Sokolov, a man so difficult to converse with that Yakov would prefer listen to his ex-wife nag for two weeks instead. Vladimir Sokolov knows everything that goes on within fifteen miles radius but that’s where his gifts run out. Thankfully, his twenty-something year old niece has proved to be much sharper than Sokolov, as well as equally well informed. Yakov asks again, his curiosity far from being satisfied with vague, half-assed answers.

“No, thank you. You are hiding something. What do you need from him?”

“Don’t nag.”

“You sound just like Yuri. Spill, Kolya.”

Nikolai’s sigh is familiar; it’s almost the same tone he uses when Yuri is being stubborn, when complaining Georgi’s last nerve is rubbed raw by some inconvenience, when things don’t go their way as smoothly as they want. Yakov knows Nikolai well, but he is seldom the target of the man’s impatience and dismissive gestures. It is hard to guess the reasons but thankfully, Nikolai decides not to keep him waiting any longer.

“I’ve asked him about Evgenia.”

It’s been so many years since Yakov has last heard her name that he simply blinks at Nikolai, waiting for elaboration. When none arrives, he echoes the man.

“Evgenia?”

“Yes.”

“Yes? That’s it? Why the hell are you looking for Evgenia? It’s been years.”

Nikolai licks his lips; the sour berry taste is rich even after the liquid is gone. It warms him up better than cognac. Maybe he is just sentimental. However, his search for Evgenia has nothing to do with nostalgia.

“I’m aware how long it has been, and it’s not for a reunion.”

“What then? You know she’s beyond your reach.”

“We don’t know yet. Listen to me, you tell no one about this.”

Yakov rolls his eyes, pulling off the gesture with far more sincerity than senior Plisetsky. He could scold Nikolai for having so little faith in his secrecy, even though he knows it’s not worth their time. Trust is not the issue, he can tell. Nikolai, on the other hand, looks sombre, as he teases.

“You look just like Yuri.” Yakov spares a chuckle. “Touché… What’s with the secrecy?”

“Sokolov said someone has been getting curious about Yuri. No source, just word getting around, asking what he’s up to, where he goes to. I want to know who.”

“You think Evgenia is asking around to get to Yuri? Listen to yourself…”

Nikolai purses his lips as he reaches for his cigarette case, carefully filled with Sobranie. The silver has seen better days, time shows on its dulling surface but he has never bothered to replace it, despite receiving several new cases over various birthdays.

Lighting up a cigarette, he glares at Yakov in defence.

“No, I don’t. If she is around, however, I don’t want her to become leverage. Tell Mila to make a quick search, see what she comes up with. If she finds nothing, I’ll ask Viktor.”

“Viktor has no time. He is in the States; he’ll go back to Japan after that,” says Yakov and relaxes his brows as he leans back. His voice may be mellow but wasting time on a task like this is something they cannot afford, not before a bigger deal. “Kolya, you know Evgenia has vanished, ages ago. God knows where she is. It’s not our problem anymore. Yuri is safe.”

“Is he?” Nikolai’s jaw is tense, his mind clearly preoccupied and for the first time that day, Yakov wonders if he’s missing something that the other man isn’t. “Look, this is not about this one incident. Someone bigger will eventually get curious and start asking questions. When we need to find Yuri, where will he be?”

“Some designer store is my safest bet right now.”

“Funny, but I’m serious. Can you tell me where he is right now, without a second thought?”

Yakov sighs, averting his eyes. He knows Nikolai is worried because he is worried too, more often than not. And yet, he is still certain that Yuri will find a way to sneak off, do something he isn’t supposed to do, try something he should stay away from. The boy reminds him of both of the Plisetsky men he has known, and also no one else at all.

Yuri is holographic. Under the correct light, Yakov thinks he can see all the colours the boy is hiding but as soon as he turns away, everything is mute and opaque like ocean before the rain. Nothing moves beneath the silver surface. 

Yakov sighs… He is distracted suddenly, by the taste of his liquor and the brief glimpse of a memory.

“Remember when Anton came home two days too late? He told you he tried to take the Trans-Siberian train with his friends but they got bored not even halfway through, and ended up staying in Ekaterinburg before coming back to Moscow. It was around when it got bloody too, everywhere. They came back without a scratch but you were livid, boy, do I remember…” Yakov chuckles before continuing, his throaty laughter sounding gloomy with fading memories of someone else. “Absurd child… He was barely twenty. And he was no rebel, he listened to you.”

The weight of the name is present in the room. Either that or Nikolai can swear he left a window open; he feels chilly and tugs at the collar of his wool jacket. He remembers alright… What became a tourist attraction had been a battlefield then. He remembers machine guns in broad daylight, he remembers thinking thrice before stepping foot on the street. He remembers how he slapped Anton when the boy had the nerve to laugh at his face and tell him to relax, after disappearing for two days and telling him that they decided to stay in a hotel at the bottom of that mess. Nikolai was scared, terrified to the bone, but not as much as he was furious. It could have gone so wrong, but in the end it didn’t matter.  
  
Yakov is right; Anton was a good boy, even if prone to having a good time more often than Nikolai cared for. He had his head screwed on right. He was chasing business before he was in his mid-twenties. And he still broke Nikolai’s heart.

“So… You’re saying Yuri will be worse.”

“I’m saying Yuri is not Anton. He’ll have his own mayhem. And it wouldn’t matter if he was exactly like Anton, he’d still get into trouble. That’s what kids do. You were no saint either.”

Nikolai lets out a derisive snort, dragging on his cigarette. It’s silly to compare their youth with Yuri’s, he cannot name a single thing about the life outside the window that feels familiar.

“That was a different time.”

“Right… You aren’t a saint now either, times don’t matter as much as you think. Yuri will be fine; we’ve done what we should to keep an eye on him and it’s going well. Altin is doing a good job.”

“Altin is barely older than Yuri, Yakov. I don’t know how you two talked me into this; I have a bone to pick with Georgi.”

“Spare him, it might be his undoing,” says Yakov, raising his hand. His expression tells more than his words, however he has no patience to go into detail. Watching Nikolai attempt to keep his serious face intact is priceless but even for that, they cannot waste valuable free time discussing Georgi’s head-butting with the junior sergeant. He continues. “Besides, you know I… _recruited_ him. I know what he’s capable of, what his limits are. Your priority was having an invisible fence around Yuri—”

“Fence? He’s not a fucking rescue dog.”

“I believe _your_ term was ‘a shorter leash’…”

Nikolai wets his lips, glaring out the window for a second. “I will kill Georgi… _Safety_ is the correct word, Yuri’s _safety_ is my priority—”

“ _And_ , Altin keeps him safe. It’s been smooth sailing so far; spare a moment and think what this means. Yuri has someone close to his age around him all the time; someone with skills. Someone who can protect him, in every sense of the word. He’s good for Yuri. And Yuri doesn’t hate him.”

Nikolai purses his lips. Yuri isn’t a terrible boy, like many people believes but it is hard to call him friendly and welcoming, let alone _loving_. “I find that very hard to believe.”

Yakov turns to Nikolai and shakes his finger at the old man’s face, bringing his glass of liquor dangerously close to spilling crimson all over the antique Oushak rug.

“You are being a cranky old shit just because Altin is young. Yuri is doing fine, what else do you want?”

“I think Yuri would be better off with someone older, someone—”

“Someone like Viktor?”

Yakov’s irritated question is met with silence; Nikolai averts his eyes, tutting as if Yakov mentioned something unspeakable. It is hard not to compare people with Viktor. They both agree on that, especially when Yuri is concerned but Nikolai still insists on not discussing the obvious, even when it’s only him and Yakov. For each other, there are no dark secrets brewing underneath their tongues.

Nikolai lets out a grunt and Yakov answers, not waiting for his words to finally come out.

“Viktor cannot be a crutch for Yuri for the rest of his days. He has his own life to live, his own work to attend, his own relationship to pay attention to. I know Yuri took it hard when Viktor left Russia, I was there too. But it’s time you got over it. If you get your head out of its fog of worries, you’ll see. Yuri is over it.” After a pause, Yakov echoes Nikolai’s grunt and adds. “Well… Over it as much as he’ll ever be.”

Yakov nods; there is no need for details, he is aware of everything. After finishing his drink, he reaches for the crystal bottle.

 

“One more round?”

“One more round.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s been ten days since Otabek has started to shadow Yuri, and Yuri isn’t quite sure how to handle it.

Otabek doesn’t fall all over him like Mila, or breathe down his neck like the ‘emotional-baggage-Witch-King’ Georgi. He is not an open book. Their first days have gone without any conversation at all; because Otabek saw no reason to start one and Yuri was too busy protesting in his own special way: sulking.

He scowled and growled, rolled his eyes and sighed to no avail. Otabek was there, beside him. During his short drive to school at the crack of dawn, during his walk back in the afternoons. He was around when Yuri lingered, when he was delaying their return, sharing a smoke with Pavel around the canals, postponing school work and not answering many phone calls from Yakov or grandpa. Pavel even teased Yuri, telling him how lame it is that he has a babysitter like some spoiled celebrity child. Yuri grunted and agreed, not caring that Otabek could hear them both clearly as he nonchalantly replied to myriad texts on an app Yuri did not use.

It’s been ten days and Yuri doesn’t know much about Otabek apart from his name, his age, and that he is Kazakh. Otabek’s answers to Yuri’s limited number of questions have been brief enough to make Yuri feel like an overly curious toddler, despite the fact that _Yuri_ is supposed to be the uninterested one.

But Otabek is… _interesting_.

He doesn’t have the arrogance that would come with his duty. He doesn’t suck up to him, to grandpa, to Yakov or anyone for that matter. He doesn’t bother to pay attention to the most comment-provoking accessories and clothes Yuri chooses to wear during his off-school hours. The one thing he is picky about seems to be his tea –Lapsang Souchong, no milk, no sugar– but that’s about it when it comes to his demands. Unlike Yuri, who has set some sort of standard for almost anything he cares about.

Otabek has _tattoos_.

Mila has a tattoo as well but Yuri doesn’t care for it, it’s a small and colourful thing, suits Mila but nothing Yuri would pay attention to. It’s hard to ignore Otabek’s. Otabek’s are _different_. Their ink is already fading, their edges are raw and unpolished. Otabek carries them quietly, discreetly. The ones on his knuckles are visible as the midday sun but still, Yuri learns that his new shadow has a skill of making himself unnoticeable if the situation calls for it. Even with his leather and the most intense stare Yuri has ever seen. Yuri doesn’t really know what Otabek’s tattoos mean but he’s been on the internet the better part of his life. He knows they mean _something_. Something that he cannot ask about… Yet. And he’s almost embarrassed that he wants to get a tiger tattoo, worried that it will make him look like a wannabe.

Otabek’s tattoos aren’t fashionable. They are the real deal.

Yuri wonders in blissful ignorance, trying his best not to stare and remain indifferent. Walk from school to home are uneventful enough to make him wonder what the fuck was the purpose of hiring a guy to walk beside him like a stalker. There had been no conversations between them, until that afternoon, Otabek asked him a question out of the blue as they passed by the tacky jewellery store that made Yuri gag every time he saw the display. 

“Who takes care of your cat?”

Yuri turns away from the gaudy collection of bug necklaces and blinks at Otabek.

“Huh?”

“You’re out all the time, who takes care of your cat?”

“I— What?”

It’s white noise in Yuri’s head. He seldom gets caught off guard for he has an answer for anything and everything; Viktor once groaned because Yuri snapped at him in his sleep. His current lack of proper answers is laughable. Yuri frowns with many reasons behind his knitted fair brows. Otabek talked so casually and without any hint of judgement in his voice that he cannot find anything to take his claws out for. Otabek glances at him with a stare deep enough to clash with his calm voice.

“You had a cat when I first saw you.”

It’s a gloomy day with dark clouds looming over the city; weather has already become merciless for anyone and anything without a shelter. Yuri is warm in his fur lined coat; warmer than Otabek, he’d imagine but still, Yuri is the one who feels a chill gliding down his spine, flicking that forgotten bite in his chest.

Thoughts start buzzing in his head like a beehive without a queen. There is no way Yakov or grandpa would let someone suspicious near him, there is no way they wouldn’t do a good background search on this guy before hiring him. And yet… Five words are enough to remind Yuri the hot sickly feeling of worry eating through his stomach.  It’s pointless, he knows. Still, he is suddenly very aware that he is alone with a guy whom he knows nothing about.

His razor stare turns to Otabek, his voice sharper still.

“What? When did you _last saw me_?”  

Otabek’s features are calm, collected, as if he hasn’t noticed the change in Yuri’s posture; how his eyes turned icy, how ready he is to bite and scar. He shrugs, leaving Yuri to deal with that on his own.

“When I first came to St Petersburg… I was with Feltsman; you were getting into the car carrying your cat.” Otabek remembers the meeting clear as day; not because Yuri’s frown was the thing that got carved into his mind the most, but because it was the day that changed everything in his life. Jumping into the deep end. Yuri happened to be there, looking annoyed but oblivious to outsiders; yet Otabek also remembers how caring Yuri was and how he doted on the fluffy creature.  It didn’t take a clairvoyant to know that Yuri loved his cat, even if a pet was something Otabek never had experienced with. He continues: “Yakov introduced me, briefly, but you looked distracted. I barely saw Nikiforov, then I left.”

Yuri gapes at the older boy long enough to forget walking.

"Oh."

He had _no_ idea. Forcing his memory to catch a spark of that day, he frowns harder, but it’s a blank page. Both Viktor and Masha feel like they have been gone for a lifetime.

His pout lingers when he finally gives up. There is no way he is remembering whatever random day Otabek happened to move to St Petersburg or Masha worried him. It doesn’t matter anymore; but the memory of the cat fills him up like a familiar scent, tugging his mind at neglected memories. Yuri’s shoulders have slouched enough to make Baranovskaya screech at him like a banshee when he finally starts walking again.

“I don’t remember that at all.” He could leave it there but he can taste the end of the sentence hanging in the air loose; he adds before he can stop himself. “Sorry.”

“It was not a significant meeting.”

Otabek’s attitude is still shocking to him despite the ten-day-trial Yuri has received. He can’t decide if it’s indifference or a respectful distance but Otabek doesn’t seem to be interested in answers much. Then Yuri remembers, Otabek has actually asked him the question he still hasn’t answered. The thought doesn’t hurt him the way it did months ago but it’s a hole inside, a cavity that occasionally gives him a sharp ache and then disappears. Yuri turns his eyes towards the traffic, watching the light go from red to green. They cross the street before he starts talking casually, as if Otabek asked him for directions.

“Masha. She died this year.”

“Who?”

“The cat, you asked who takes care of her.”

Otabek’s face changes for the first time that afternoon and Yuri watches him as he raises his sharp brows, turning to Yuri with all the attention he can spare. He is so focused on his own agenda that Yuri feels exposed having Otabek’s gaze fixed upon him. Whatever is behind those eyes, it works with more power than anyone else’s and Yuri isn’t sure how to handle it. It is enough to make Yuri forget Masha and make sure he is not blinking too fast.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know… What happened?”

Yuri shrugs; looking around listlessly is the easier way to act indifferent. Neither Otabek’s stare not the death of his cat are things he wants to focus on when the icy wind is grating his cheekbones off.

“She was old, kidneys were failing.” His voice is alarmingly unattached considering the subject but Yuri finds it easier to brush off the question rather than give a full detailed story. It’s not like Otabek is interested anyway; the guy is probably making small talk. “We had to put her down, it was less painful. For her, I mean.”

He refuses to step aside and give way to the chatterbox girls coming their way, no matter how much stink eye they may give. Otabek follows him after a brief grunt, the only sign he has heard Yuri answer. It is fucking difficult to understand whether he is moved or uninterested, the guy is like a statue.  And yet, he was the one to ask the question and he was the one who wanted to know about a cat he barely saw whatever years ago. Otabek is weird and quiet and hard to decipher, Yuri decides. And Otabek is still more interesting than anyone else he can think of.

Snow doesn’t paralyze the city here, it’s not the solemn quiet of the countryside under the weight of the white.  Even though the following moments are wordless, the silence is filled by the noise of passing cars and endless humming of daily life around. But the end of the short-lived conversation doesn’t mean Yuri stopped thinking about what Otabek said. It’s hard to tell if he is paying attention to his surroundings; Otabek looks calm, if not bored. His steps are easy and unhurried, he seems untroubled by many things that annoy Yuri on a daily basis. The only strange thing about him is that he insists on keeping his peacoat unbuttoned, clashing with the fur and wool covered citizens passing by.

“Why didn’t you tell me that we’ve met before?”

Yuri has never met anyone who was so content with not speaking; every word that comes out of his own mouth feels exaggerated. Still, he has questions, whether Otabek has answers or not. Much to his surprise, Otabek answers, without hesitating.

“There was no point.”

“Why?”

Otabek indulges Yuri with a ghostly, barely there smile.

“We haven’t _truly_ met before,” he explains. “I barely saw you for a few minutes and you were focused on your cat the whole time.” If that was supposed to be a dig at his ill manners, Yuri chooses not to notice. “And it’s understandable that you don’t remember me, I was hardly memorable.”

Yuri’s steps almost come to a halt when he turns to the unassuming guy walking next to him, who is still blissfully unaware of the level twisting Yuri’s face has pulled off. When Pavel is being fake-humble, Yuri can almost smell that weasel’s insincerity. Up to this point, he thought he was an okay judge of character for the people he has come across with, mostly by expecting the worst. Otabek, on the other hand, is a blank page. Everything is invisible ink and Yuri doesn’t know the tricks.

Either that, or he is just that see-through and Yuri doesn’t know how to take that. Nobody is see-through, not if they don’t want to be the idiot who couldn’t survive.

“Are you for real?”

He planned to sound cynical but his voice just came off childishly surprised, making Yuri cringe. He quickly follows up, rolling his eyes.

“You don’t seem dumb; you obviously know you don’t blend in with the lacklustre crowd, with your ink and leather and, I don’t know, that death stare.”

Otabek throws a glance and shrugs.

“I must have been fifteen, I didn’t look like _this_ , you know… Leather stuff and most of the ink came later.”

“Most of?”

“Most of.”

Yuri purses his lips, trying to decide if it’s worth a shot but he decides against it. Whatever it is with his tattoos, the moment passes as quickly as it arrives and before they know it, Otabek is throwing a disapproving look at one speed-happy asshole determined to run at least a stray cat off on his way to an accident. Yuri looks away. The ice hidden in the air is sharp against their faces; he can see his nose turning bright red, betraying his cold stance, making him look like a holiday boy on a musty old Christmas card. How Otabek walks around with just his wool coat and a lumpy grey scarf is a mystery.

“Whatever,” he grumbles as they took the street that leads to Yuri’s building. He can spot the façade in the distance, somewhat well taken care of, compared to the dingy buildings around the city. “You are not boring, is what I’m trying to say.”

Otabek’s face is so fucking hard to read when he wants to keep it blank, and the motherfucker wants to keep it blank a lot. But for once, the frost around them thaws for a moment and Otabek chuckles.

“I’m not? That’s a surprise.”

Yuri keeps walking. His spring-like stare is fixed on the ground but it is clear that he doesn’t watch where he is going. His voice is low, almost inaudible when he adds “Everyone else is,” but he offers no explanations for it. Otabek glimpses at Yuri, mostly because he cannot afford to stop and stare and decipher the meaning behind his mumble when they are almost home. Yuri’s agenda changes at a breakneck speed, it is difficult to keep up when Otabek knows only the bare minimum. Yakov thinks he has told him all about Yuri when he gave him the boy’s schedule, brief notes on people in his life and past but it means nothing when Yuri’s eyes darken with the thoughts Otabek cannot guess. He decides to let it go and as if this spitfire can read minds, he is expected to offer more answers.

“What did they tell you about me?”

Otabek lifts one eyebrow, reminding Yuri that whatever contract he had with Yakov was still confidential, much to Yuri’s dismay. But Yuri is relentless, he is not used to taking no for an answer and he is determined to know what his makeshift family thinks of him. Otabek sighs, he isn’t sure what Yuri wants to hear but he is almost sure that is won’t be what he thinks.

“Not much,” he starts. “Yakov told me about your daily life, school times, a little about your school people—”

“Yeah, they are called _friends_ , you freak.”

“—about the other people in your life, the staff… Places you tend to go often, your temper.”

Yuri smirks as if he caught someone’s bluff.

“Shocking. What else?”

“Georgi mentioned something about your tendency to throw things around, but it’s nice to see that’s exclusive to Georgi only.”

There is a hidden laugh in his voice, Yuri can bet all his designer shoes on it but there is no evidence of it on Otabek’s face so he pushes.

“Sad sack did not fail me, I’m not surprised. That’s it? Nothing about running away, breaking rules, being a brat, yelling a lot, smoking when I’m not supposed to, drinking when I’m not supposed to, shopping a lot? Nothing about being the shithead that Plisetskys never signed up for?” The grin on his face is wide but Otabek cannot find joy in it. Yuri presses more. “Come on now, Hell’s Angel. I have ears.”

Otabek shrugs again, mostly because he doesn’t have an equally long list of answers. Some yes, some no. It doesn’t matter.

“Mila said you were funny, she was right.”

They are one building away from the house now and Yuri’s eyes roll in their sockets wildly as he lets out a grunt of disgust and exasperation. Sounds half-hearted but Otabek will not call him out on it. He remains quiet and Yuri asks no more, until they reach the door.

A familiar face Otabek cannot put a name on opens the door and lets Yuri pass, telling Otabek that Feltsman has not arrived yet. Otabek’s ready to leave without exchanging goodbyes when he hears Yuri calling his name. Turning back, he looks at the boy who stands at the foot of the stairwell.

“Hey,” he says as if someone is forcing him to do it. “You have my phone number?”

Otabek tells him he does, he was given sufficient information about Yuri and his phone number was not spared.

“Fine,” Yuri says starting to climb the stairs, “text me. I may need it for emergencies and shit. They gave me your number earlier but I threw it away.”

Otabek texts him when he reaches the corner of the street. Walk to the metro station is much faster than their walk back from school.

 

* * *

 

Long nails tap on the mousepad rhythmically.

 

_Tap-a-tap-tap-tap-_

_Tap-a-tap-tap-tap-_

_Tap-a-tap-tap-tap-_

_Tap-a-tap-ta_

 

“Babe, will you cut that out?”

Mila blinks at the source of the voice and huffs at the blonde girl sitting across the room at a cluttered desk.

“Sorry, I was thinking.”

“Think with your _head_ , not your nails. I have to finish this by midnight.”

The laptop screen in front of Mila is chock full of article screenshots and local newspaper links, some not-so-legally obtained travel records. She purses her carefully coloured coral lips, re-reading the same name/different surnames here and there. It’s been a chore, not the kind of work she finds stimulating but when Yakov asks for something, he demands perfection. Whether it’s a bowl of borscht or classified documents is irrelevant.

She saves the documents under a protected file named _‘Genia’_ and reaches for her phone. She doesn’t wait for another warning to make her call out in the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, we have an update.
> 
> I'm sorry this chapter took so damn long to be finished, I've had a couple rough months in between as well as a few drabbles and other writing that I've finished while I was distracted. I'm tired of looking at this chapter for 4 months so I didn't even proofread this, excuse any typos you may spot. This text will get some attention once I get it out of my system. Leave a comment and tell me what you think.
> 
> dizzytea@tumblr


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *publishes and runs away*
> 
> This chapter couldn't feel more like a hit-and-run. Sorry for my embarrassingly long break, I hope I'll be faster from now on but let's not jinx outselves. 
> 
> Many many thanks to all who sat through my 10 month of whining about writing, but most of all Kait because she puts up with me the most. 
> 
> (I'll proofread later I promise.)

**2004**

 

Incense is pungent; it burns his throat.

Nikolai never really liked this scent; it lingers forever around and inside him, but it’s not possible to object to it. Not in a church, not at a funeral.

St Igor Church is packed and half of Moscow is in it, either out of respect or out of fear. There are few in there who had loved the deceased, Nikolai knows, but if it was up to him, he wouldn’t have invited anyone. He stares at the kisses that are left on the cold forehead, the body covered by so many flowers. Anton looks strange. Like his son, like a stranger; unfamiliar to Nikolai who is so familiar with death. Embalming liquid has kept his features somewhat lifelike but Nikolai has seen his son alive, and on a hospital bed, and after his death.  He knows that the boy has stitches all over his body underneath all his pure white gown and pristine covers. Gold embroidery makes a mockery of them all. He never thought he would see Anton in the middle of a sea of mourners. It should have been the other way around.

Evgenia’s face is carved stone; blank, cold. Only thing that betrays her silence is her hitched breath. The woman’s eyes are swollen and pink, and Nikolai has no words to comfort her sorrow or her worries. Everyone around him looks like a stranger. He stares at Yakov who is standing beside him as people pass them by, like ghosts in black. Echoing prayers and the scent will cling to his senses for days. It is hard to wash off grief.

Nikolai’s lungs are blazing fire in his chest as the coffin is lowered into the ground. Leaves, branches, flowers and dirt is covering his son’s broken body now. Winter is merciless around them; Nikolai wishes the ground would swell and swallow them up whole, leaving no sinner behind. And yet, earth is still around the grave. He watches people drift away and snow starts to fall again. Evgenia stands beside him, her eyes fixated on the soil while Nikolai blinks at the three wooden bars on the cross, thinking about the arrangements for the type of marble that will take its place. Nothing makes sense.

He remembers nothing from the reception.

After everyone has left, after the food and the drinks and all the damned blini in the world is devoured and gone, after the sun sets on Moscow and the Plisetsky house, Nikolai is alone in his study, staring at his hands, his cup of tea going cold on the desk.  He has refused every offer for a stronger drink. He wanted to remember this day, this night, everything, but things and words slip his mind as if all this happened years ago. He’s already forgotten what the guests have said to him, whose hands he’s shaken, or when. All the black wool and cashmere and lace have blended into one big ink stain, while Yakov did the talking. Yakov did so much talking while Nikolai stood tall and still, like an old hollow tree.

Sound of the pendulum is louder than anything else in the house. Moscow is freezing outside, weight of all its past winters resting heavily on Nikola’s shoulders. Their house is well heated but outside, there is ice growing over his son’s grave.

 

* * *

  **2016**

 

Furious steps crush the snow and ice on the pavements and Yuri doesn’t stop to make way for the people coming from across the road. Careless and frustrated, he is ready to walk through the entire city before it hits midnight but as he considers the plan, his phone buzzes in his hand. The screen is enough to make him jolt with a new batch of irritation.

“What?”

The noise coming from the end of the line is equal parts of brawl and bad taste in music. Pavel almost sounds nervous enough to be sober.

“What the fuck did you do?”  
“What did I do?”  
“Yuri don’t fuck with me, did you empty the bag in the toilet or not?”

 _Yes_ , he did. And no, he doesn’t care enough to try too hard to save his ass.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He knows his serene tone drives Pavel insane but there are others who do not appreciate it. He hears another fight going on behind and soon someone else snatches the phone from his friend and screams into his ear with no regard for his hearing.

“I WILL KILL YOU-”

Yuri ignores the little jump of discomfort in him and grunts at Daniil, the (something something) mob boss wannabe Pavel calls a friend.

“Stop screeching, what the fuck do you want?”  
“Why is the coke in the toilet?”  
“It is? How peculiar.”  
“Fucker, I will cut you up for this, that shit cost me nearly twenty grand! You shouldn’t have messed with me.”

Yuri almost snorts, his bitter spot alive enough to keep his tongue going, even though he’s sobered up the moment Daniil started running his mouth in the middle of the shit show of a party he left minutes ago.

“Wow, is that junk the only thing that’s gonna keep those drunk assholes clinging to your cock tonight?  
“THAT WAS 100%, YOU BITCH?”

“How? Have you been taking too many Colombian dicks lately? That was shit, and you know it, I posted it where it belonged. You should have watched your mouth." Pursing his cracked lips, Yuri ignores the horn of the car that passes him by and the cheap drunkards in it who are looking for a good time. Good time is off the desk for tonight. He continues, rolling his eyes. “Unclench, I’ll send you some cash, so you can keep paying your whores. Text me your account number, I’ll check it when I’m not busy. Happy new year.”

Hanging up of Daniil, Yuri shoves the phone back into the pocket of the minx coat and pulls the hood over his head. It is snowing mercilessly, for which he is thankful because even if the raging gang tried to follow him, they’d lose his tack easier. He is used to being hunted down in the city like a prey in jungle; one fair weather thug does not scare him. 

Yet, the weight of his words rest heavy on his chest and pinch the corners of his mouth, the more he thinks about it. It took half a bottle for Pavel to start teasing him about how he used to come to school with bodyguards when he was little, and how he had six set of nannies and cops following him to make up for his missing parents. Pavel was a dick, Yuri was used to him being nasty but as much as he could ignore his friend, a new-money nobody piling on the conversation was something he would not put up with.  Not when he was trying to have a good time.

_“Do your servants check for peas under your mattress before you go to bed every night?”_

Thirty people stuffed in a fancy living room, all drunk, all high. It must have sounded hysterical and Yuri tried to roll his eyes and flip Daniil off but the waste of space would not let it go. Any time Yuri snapped back, he had more to yank his chain with. _A pampered princess, a sheltered edge-lord preening and posing as the next big thing, the fake It Boy using his granddad’s name as a stepping stone._ More, less. Yuri wasn’t sure. There were a lot of definitions for the space he takes up in the world. Tension rose, argument grew. Everyone thought it hilarious, Pavel egged them on until Yuri flipped them and declared he couldn’t put up with a trash crowd on his New Year’s Eve. He disappeared into the bathroom, grabbing Daniil’s prized bag for the night, emptying the entire thing into the toilet without a trace of regret in his gut. Yuri would bet the coat on his back that whatever they sold to this asshole as ‘straight from the brick’ was part bullshit but he didn’t care.  Rest of the crew could continue on molly and Pavel could choke on his limited edition vodka for all he cared. He was out.

He reaches into the other pocket to take out a cigarette and drops one of the Sobranie into the snow, cursing the factory all the way to its founders and back. He didn’t plan this night to go like this, he didn’t talk to his grandpa until his jaw was sore so he could let Otabek off the hook and allow Yuri to go alone. He didn’t want to look like he wasn’t allowed to travel without a chaperone. _So much for that plan now._

Lighting the second cigarette, he fills his lungs to the brim and lets out the smoke in one thick cloud, quickly disappearing under heavy snow. Streets are still full of people getting places before it’s the big moment, there is light and music coming from inside the buildings and Yuri feels so alone he almost chokes on the feeling. “Fuck this…” he mumbles and fastens his steps; he almost misses the buzz of his phone.

Ready to empty all the poison into the luckless sod who’s calling him, he grabs the phone but the name stops him. One text message.

 

_Otabek:_

_How’s the party going?_

 

Yuri purses his lips. Myriad answers come to mind but he doesn’t want to tell any of that to Otabek. He doesn’t want to tell his life story, no matter how decent their exchange may have become lately. Yes, Otabek is cool. Yes, Otabek has been discreet. That doesn’t mean Otabek can’t make Yuri feel like he’s being constantly followed around, even when he’s alone.

Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Yuri avoids the avenue and takes a passage to a narrow sidewalk by one of the smaller canals. All the main roads are a mess tonight; countless drunk people are jumping in their spots to keep from turning blue until 3 am to see a bunch of fireworks, the Palace Square is packed already but passing the empty streets is surprisingly easy when life is focused on a countdown. Yuri manages to slide by the familiar black car without being obviously noticed, and shakes the piling snow on his hood once he sees his house once he turns the corner. He was supposed to be out until tomorrow noon and if there is one moment where he doesn’t feel like answering questions, it’s now. Count on the security people to scold him for coming home early for once in his almost-adult life.

Purposefully forgetting to look anyone in the eye, he passes by two other guys near the building door and pushes his way in like he is taking revenge on the hinges. The communal elevator is grand and inviting compared to the one that directly goes into the floor of the renovated penthouse; Yuri’s fingerprint and the password revives the 6–people elevator and before he can finish his rich line of curses, Yuri is inside the apartment, leaving wet prints on the hardwood floor. The place is empty; nobody is there to shake his finger at him for stomping as if the floor was responsible for everything. He is grateful that grandpa had other plans with Feltsman and other geezers. He’ll welcome the New Year shaking with rage and there is nobody around to stop him.

Winter bites at the skin in St. Petersburg. Wind coming from the Baltic nearly grates exposed cheekbones and knuckles; first breath of the icy weather at night may be sobering but the rest settles into lungs and hangs on to the scalp like briar. Yuri only notices his numb fingers when he throws the fur on a velvet ottoman and tries to unlock his phone. No new messages. Many pins and needles.

Even lying on his bed, damp and restless, doesn’t bring him any spiteful joy. Silence fills into his ears like hot wax; realization of his bleak night unfolding before him while people have fun makes his stomach turn. He is no longer sure if he is mad at Pavel, his movie thug Daniil or the herd of mindless morons clinging to their cocks for a good time.

Each one of them is worthless, yet Yuri still wants to be wanted, if only out of spite.

Before he can delve into that thought any further, his phone pings brightly in the dark room once more. Yuri wants to text back a concise ‘fuck off’ to anyone who is interrupting his artful misery but when he sees Otabek’s name on the screen for the second time that night, the line between his brows loses its harsh depth.

 

_Otabek:_

_If you need something, better let me know now. I’ll go out later._

Yuri looks at the text bubble and before he knows it, he is typing back.

_no i’m good. i'm home._

 

He isn’t sure why he included the last bit but he wants some company, even if it’s only through a screen. Feeling bitter alone is no fun; misery loves company for a reason. He can hear the car honks, muffled behind thick windows. People are having fun and he just wants to spit out poison. The words that were thrown at him stay in his chest like infected cuts but he’ll be damned if he shows that to anyone. One more ping distracts him before he can print his nail marks well into his palms.

_Otabek:_

_Home? What happened?_

 

Yuri rolls his eyes, almost fighting himself not to smirk. Otabek has surprised him in better ways than he thought he ever would, but keeping to the bare minimum while expecting maximum amount of information never changes. Less than a month in and Yuri is sure he’d need to sit down if Otabek sent him more than one text at a time. A ghost of a smile breaks the glare while he types.

 

_party turned shit. where are u going?_

 

_Otabek:_

_A non-shit party._

 

The possibility of Otabek having a life outside his work is so baffling that Yuri sits up like shooting out of a box. He doesn’t consider his action much, but simply calls Otabek’s number as he stares outside the window. A chance of saving the night seems too good to pass. In less than two rings, Otabek picks up.

“You can’t come with me.”

Question dries up on Yuri’s tongue, and another sting finds place among the rest but he is too much of a fighter to give in after one refusal.

“Why?!”  
“It’s not a place you belong.”  
“But you do?”  
“It doesn’t matter where I belong, you can’t come. Why are you home?”

Despite Yuri’s rattled protest, Otabek’s voice is calm. It always is. Yuri tries to hear something on the background but it is too quiet. He can’t be outside yet. Yet the final question manages to distract him; it’s harder to roll his eyes and expect an effect when nobody can see him.

“It’s just… I mean, whatever. It was a shit party. I don’t like the people.”  
“You don’t?”  
“No.”  
“Why do you see them, then?”

There is a shuffling from Otabek’s side of the line, Yuri ignores what sounds like fabric noise and shrugs.

“One needs friends. Don’t you have any?”

Otabek’s voice is too neutral for Yuri to make anything of it, he wishes he could see the guy’s face but Otabek has a tendency of avoiding video calls. He’s tried once, to get advice on shoes. It did not go well. The answer for his question comes fast enough to lack depth.

“Not anymore, I don’t think so. Are you okay? You sound upset.”

Yuri would feel better if Otabek didn’t sound so professional and on duty, so he avoids a real answer, just like Otabek did.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Where are you going?”  
“You are not coming w-”  
“I’m not gonna crash the party! I’m just asking. And don’t say ‘out’.”

To his shock, Otabek chuckles. Yuri blinks for a couple seconds, unsure of what to make of it. He’s seen Otabek smirk, and smile maybe –never a full one– but he isn’t sure if he’s heard him _almost_ laugh. It’s weird, like seeing a cat walking on its front legs.

“A club. Happy?”

He grins; no, he isn’t happy but it’s an answer.

“It is a good one?”  
“Not for you.”  
“ _Oh my fucking god_ , you’re the worst...”

It’s not the truth, but Yuri says it anyway. He’s alone in an empty massive apartment, his so-called friends have made him a target for a few drunk giggles and a small incident of flushed 20 grands, his grandpa is away with his own entourage and Otabek is the only person who is listening to Yuri talk. He can say whatever he wants.

“Fine, asshole. Go party. I don’t care.”  
“Are you staying home alone?”  
“Are you gonna tell me to lock the door?”

An exhale that sounds too much like another chuckle tickles his ear, and Yuri purses his lips. The gloss he put on early in the evening is long gone, but the red tint remains, to be left on the edge of a sneaky glass of vodka on his bed, or five.

“No. Be safe. See you soon.”  
“Yeah…” Yuri absentmindedly answers, and grudges his words as he wraps it up. “Have fun.”  
“I’ll try.”

They hang up without saying goodbye. It’s starting to snow again and Yuri chews his lips, his room is all the more silent now that he’s been talking. He avoids turning on the lights, takes his suede boots off and walks to the window bare feet. There is a small crowd across the street, jumping up and down at the corner of an ice blue building. Yuri can hear the countdown. He doesn’t check the time on his phone, just quickly types one last text and hits send. He doesn't expect a reply.

Four… Three… Two… One…

 

_Otabek:_

_Happy new year._

 

* * *

 

Yakov’s phone buzzes with a new text at dawn, barely into the new year.

 

_Mila:_

_Found her. We need to talk. Ring me when you wake up._

 

 

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [No Church in the Wild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894131) by [LaMaldita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMaldita/pseuds/LaMaldita)




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